


Discipline

by ClementineStarling



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Burnplay, Dom/sub, Humiliation, M/M, finding the right tags for this is hell, fireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the prompt: "Coward cuts his hair without Blackwood's permission and that leads to... bad things."</p><p>Warning: this is not nice, this is not consensual, and this is not porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discipline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viceindustrious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/gifts).



> So this is about what I initially had in mind.  
> Extended version of [my fill for the 3rd commentficwar @unsettled's livejournal](http://viceindustrious.livejournal.com/).

Coward feels luxurious as he arrives at the club, his hair still slightly damp from the bath, his skin velvety and soft from the expensive scented lotion, Henry gifted him with, complemented by a matching perfume no less exquisite. Not that he could not have afforded such fancies by himself, though he would never have considered it appropriate for a gentleman to bask in self-indulgence. Henry, naturally, had only laughed at such qualms. “When will you ever let go of your good Christian upbringing and simply enjoy yourself. You are worth all the luxuries this world has to offer. And one day I shall adorn you in gold and jewels for you deserve nothing less.” And then he had kissed all semblance of propriety out of him, kissed him until the ache sat so deep in his belly he could think of nothing else, nothing but deliverance from this unbearable need. And Coward found, that under the circumstances, he did indeed forget to worry about the indecency of it all.

There is something about Henry's manner that makes everything so very simple. He will express a desire and Coward will take pleasure, pride even, in fulfilling it. He follows every order with almost religious zeal, and Henry comes up with a great many. Often small requests like which shoes to wear or which food to eat. And he gives him presents, trinkets, jewellery, things that others would deem unseemly, things that indicate ownership, a notion that should be humiliating, but Coward cannot help feeling anything but cherished by Henry's attention to detail.

There have been occasions when his efforts were not living up to Henry's expectations, when he was careless or sloppy, and Henry had to discipline him for it. But even then, with Henry's anger falling down on him like rain, burning in welts and hand prints on his inflamed skin, he still knows he is loved, for why else would Henry bother punishing him? And every time Cowards swears, he will not disappoint him again, will better himself and do as he is told, and eagerly so.

Like today, when he carried out Henry's instructions to the letter, dressed in the new suit, Henry had made for him, had his body hair shaved and his beard trimmed (and while he was at it, his hair, too, as the barber suggested, his hair cut was out of fashion), bathed, put on the lotion. He feels almost divine when he gets out of the coach, aglow with anticipation, and it seems only appropriate to find the whole house blazing with golden light, it will help underline his own glamour. 

When he steps into the entrance hall, a servant hurries forward to take his gloves and hat, help him out of his coat.  
“His lordship is waiting for you in the small drawing room,” he says. “If you would follow me, my lord.”

The small drawing room. Coward can hardly suppress a pleased smile at the prospect of an intimate dinner with Henry. He had not dared hope for such an honour, and joy is bubbling like champagne in his stomach. In passing he examines his hair one last time in a mirror and finds it no less flawless than he could have wished for – he really looks dashing. 

As expected Henry awaits him in the parlour, enthroned in an armchair, a cigarette between his long fingers, and several men gathered around him, eager for his attention. A glimpse of the future, Coward thinks as he steps closer. 

Henry's eyes flick up, when he approaches. The hint of a smile ghosts over his face, but it is swiftly smothered and replaced with an unsettling hardness, an odd obsidian glint in his gaze. “Please excuse me,” he interrupts the babble of his audience, sharp, nothing less than an order, and the men retreat at once, flee the room as if chased by the devil himself.

“Daniel,” he says when they're all gone, and there is an iciness to his voice that makes Coward flinch. “What happened to your hair?”

The cold of his tone causes shivers to run down Coward's spine. It's only now that he realises his mistake.

“I had it cut.” He tries to sound nonchalant, and fails miserably. 

“I can't remember giving you permission,” Henry says. “I cannot even remember you asking for it.” He is sprawled in his chair like a king, pronouncing judgement, and some sick little part inside Coward twitches at the thought of the power Henry holds over him. 

“I--” Coward considers an apology but he doubts that, if he interprets Henry's expression correctly, it would do him any good. He has committed minor transgressions before, and pleading has never helped his cause.

“Come here.” Henry points towards the floor to his feet, and this time the tingle of fear in Coward's stomach is more pronounced. This is not Henry's bedroom after all, they are still in a public place, even if Henry has paid to have it to himself for the night.

Coward sinks gracefully to his knees, “My lord--” he begins but Henry stops him with an impatient wave of his hand.

“We have talked about this, haven't we? And I would have thought I made myself abundantly clear.”

Coward only nods, convinced now that any argument on his behalf will be futile, and willing to accept the punishment, Blackwood chooses to inflict upon him. What else can he do? Blackwood has forbidden him to change anything about his appearance without consulting him first, and he cannot believe he forgot about it. He deserves to be chastised for his negligence.

“Open your shirt.”

Coward obeys with trembling fingers. 

When he is done, Blackwood leans closer, raises his hand against his chest as if to caress him, and puts the glowing end of the cigarette on the tender skin just beneath the collarbone, Coward gasps as the pain of the burn begins to register. The faint smell of singed skin is sickening, nearly worse than the pain that sets his blood on fire. He bites lip hard, while Blackwood keeps pressing the cigarette slightly, ever so slightly into his chest until he finally has stubbed it out. Then he sits back to admire his handiwork.

“I think I must teach you a lesson, Daniel,” he says and takes another cigarette from his silver case. 

Coward shivers, uncertain what to expect. Until now Henry only ever had him kneel in the privacy of his bedroom, a place that, in itself, felt safe. And whichever fashion he chose to punish Coward, he always did it the vicinity of his bed, this inner sanctum of Henry's realm, the one place on earth that must be akin to heaven. So when he is finished with Coward's chastisement and sets aside the whip or the cane, he can make use of him in other ways, carnal ways, not always gentle - oh no, Henry is too passionate for displays of tenderness - but gratifying nonetheless. These are the touches that soothe the sting, the moments of bliss when Coward is rewarded amply with the pleasure of his lord, with the desire that takes and takes and takes, until Coward begs for release, for mercy, for anything really, death even, as long as it means, he is allowed to receive the anointment, the Last Rites of Henry's come.

Now in the small drawing room of the club lies no such promise of atonement, Coward can scarcely hope for Blackwood to have his way with him here. And yet, Coward's treacherous body stirs at the thought of being claimed in this make-shift throne room, a vision of Blackwood's rule to come, when he will be completely and utterly his, for all the world to bear witness.

And as though he could read his thoughts, Blackwood beckons him closer, so close, he just has to reach out to press an elegant finger into the burn on Coward's chest. He is here for the taking and Blackwood will do with him as he pleases, a thought that never fails to make his heart beat faster and his cock fill and swell. Blackwood's touch is relentless and Coward moans from the pain of it as if it were the highest form of bliss.

“Oh Daniel, what should I do with you?” Blackwood muses, “Whatever punishment I choose, you will simply misunderstand it as accolades for your impertinence. Look at you, all hot and bothered by my brand. I bet by now your little cock is hard and leaking with uncontrolled wantonness. What a pitiful thing you are.”

He looks at his unlit cigarette, produces a box of matches and hands it over. 

“Give me a light, will you, Daniel? And don't you dare let go of the match before it has burned out.”

Coward whimpers at the thought, but obeys, strikes the match with trembling fingers, breaks the first, breaks the second, knows that he is making this worse, but he can't help himself. With the third he succeeds, he holds it out and Blackwood leans forwards to light his cigarette, then he leans back and watches as the flame licks closer and closer to Coward's fingers. And Coward tries his best not to let go of it, but once the pain grows to great, a sharp bite of heat scorching the skin, he cannot control himself, lets go of it with a faint hiss.

He does not even see it coming, the slap meets his face with full force, tossing his head to the side, the taste of blood suddenly thick on his tongue. Coward's eyes water. Instinctively he reaches for his face, but Blackwood swats his hands away. 

“Pick up the matches, we will have to try this again, until you've learned how to behave yourself.”

Coward feels a tear escape his eye and roll over his flushed cheek, quickly he bends over to blindly grope for the matches. When he straightens himself again, Blackwood's hand grasps for his chin, fingers digging into hinge of his jaw. 

“But first open up,” he demands, “and stick out your tongue.”

And Coward wants to beg now, plead and cry maybe, utter a desperate litany of _No, oh no, Henry, please, Sir, please_ , but he knows such attempts will not soften his lord's resolve, on the contrary, and so he does what he is asked and Blackwood brings up the cigarette, flicks it between his fingers, so the ash falls from the tip onto his waiting tongue, and Coward receives it like Holy Communion, comforted somehow by the assurance that - regardless his blunder - Henry still cares for him.


End file.
